and they were roommates
by disgruntledwannabe
Summary: the only slightly convoluted story of how Combeferre and Enjolras ended up renting an apartment together


The weightless feeling in his stomach has the incredible effect of lopping back on itself in a kind of Mobius Strip of jittering nerves; they clamor against one another and spike at the sight of the door. It's slightly ajar – a sure sign that it's other future inhabitant has already made themselves at home. He inhales through his nose, relishing the sensation of his chest expanding in a calming deep breath, and with that Enjolras walks into his dorm room with the kind of trepidation he will never admit to aloud.

It is, as expected, about half the size of his room back home. The two beds are smushed against adjacent walls, and one is lofted so both desks can fit and still leave some room for the floor. The bed immediately in front of him is already done up in a nice-looking bedspread of grey and purple, the contents of a suitcase spread carefully across it.

Lofted bed it is then.

He hauls the bag in his hand over to the tiny desk sequestered in the alcove created by the bed and drops it unceremoniously on top. His things rattle when they make contact with the laminate wood before settling with finality.

It feels…right, in a way that is just slightly off-center, like there is still something that needs to slot into place, but right all the same.

"Is this it?"

His twin sister breezes into the room, all floral-patterned skirts and matching golden curls, hefting two boxes of books. Despite how heavy they must be there is only the barest layer of sweat dotting her brow – more likely as a consequence of the last summer heatwave than any type of exertion.

"Where do you want these?" Cosette asks.

Enjolras gestures vaguely to the foot of the (his) bed. "Over there is fine." The spot is near a bookshelf that is built into the wall. He will definitely have to share it, but it's a decent size and he likes that it's nearer to him.

Cosette drops the books on the floor and dusts off her hands. "The others are coming up with the rest of your things now." She kicks the boxes of books with the kind of casual disregard only a sibling can accomplish, "And there are like two more boxes of these."

"I read a lot," he responds mildly.

She snorts, "I couldn't tell. What's in that one?"

When he opens the bag she points to he discovers an entire family's worth of place settings. He pulls out a pair of salad spoons for inspection. Enjolras can't help but notice that they are the silver ones their mom used once and then never again; upon closer inspection the entire bag contains a hodgepodge of mismatched dishes his mother had probably been dying to part with.

He shows the spoons to his sister. "I think mom went a bit overboard."

"Don't worry, _I_ probably got the other half of that."

He and Cosette are interrupted by the sound of something whacking into the doorframe. A bulky garbage bag lumbers its way into the room before throwing itself into a corner with a dramatic leap, exposing the three people behind its animation. Grantaire is at point, paint splattered muscle shirt sticking to the front of his chest, and Enjolras and Cosette's mom and stepdad flank him armed with a mini-fridge and microwave respectively.

R swaggers further into the room, throws an arm around each twins' shoulders, and attempts to throw both of them off-balance. "Ah! There are my two favorite blondes!"

Cosette laughs and hooks her elbow around his waist pulling him closer. Enjolras uses the extra space to slip out from under R's sweaty grip to retrieve the garbage bag. He gently works the plastic open enough so he can peek inside, and is confronted with a variety of fabrics in a violent array of contradictory colors. He feels his eyes burn in protest.

"Enj, you wound me," R's newly freed hand clutches his heart, and he slumps his weight into Cosette. "Am I so repulsive?"

He tosses a half-smile over his shoulder, and yanks the bag closed once more. "Completely."

Grantaire slouches further into Cosette making her stumble back a few paces. "I don't know why you're so shocked R," she says.

"The love of my life has spurned me!"

Enjolras placates him with a kiss to the cheek, really not comfortable with more overt displays of affection while his parents are in the room. "You are very sweaty," he says definitively, and sets about the task of separating the garbage bag cloth: towels, from jackets, from sweaters, from bedsheets he did not even know came in this color.

R huffs. "The word you're looking for his 'hot'." Throwing a wink at his mom, who smiles in fond exasperation, his boyfriend makes as dramatic an exit as he did entrance.

Valjean rolls the fridge and his eyes toward Enjolras, who scrambles to shove both his book boxes and his sister out of the way of the only plug on his side of the room. Even though they are down a body, the dorm room seems to become smaller steadily as his own presence fills the empty space, and he and Valjean have to shuffle awkwardly around under the bed in order to fit the fridge anywhere. As his mom bully's her way into the same space, R returns with the last of his books, and together he and his family manage to elbow their way into setting up the outline of Enjolras's personal space for the next eight months.

Cosette and Grantaire place the finishing touch on the "abstract sculpture of academia" that they have been forming with his office supplies when his roommate finally makes his appearance.

Enjolras and his family are, generally, a loud group when they are together. They have a propensity to speak over one another, and, more often than not, have at least three conversations at once. (Cosette is arguing with him in favor of one of the peculiarly patterned bedspreads from the garbage bag, while he is arguing with R about the necessity of every book he brought, and at the same time assuring his parents that yes he'll probably remember to eat, and he will text them at least once a week.) So, it isn't until Enjolras crashes full-throttle into a floating lamp that it becomes apparent that another person has entered the room.

It is not, strictly speaking, the best way to make a first impression.

"Watch where you're _going_ ," his roommate snaps, and for a moment Enjolras is more surprised that he recognizes the voice than he is that he walked into a lamp.

The lamp, as it were, happens to be wearing a familiar pair of slacks to go along with his familiar voice, and even _more_ familiar steely expression. The lamp also happens to be held by Montparnasse.

There is tension in annoyance, and if anything can be said for Enjolras's prior relationship to Montparnasse it is that they annoy one another. To be fair, the extent of their interaction before today consists mainly of a two day group project in tenth grade, but said project remains one of the most torturous experiences of his life. And their brief stint as gym partners in ninth-grade was even more impressionable. In total they have probably spent less than ten hours together – functionally, they are strangers.

Sensing the tension, his mom saves the day.

"Oh! You must be Enjy's roommate; I'm so glad we caught you before we left!" His mother is far more adept at diverting confrontation than he realized. With a sharp smile, she introduces Montparnasse to Valjean, whose strong handshake is quick to intimidate, and likely gives the unsuspecting student whiplash turning Cosette's sunny demeanor on him.

Enjolras is not really a part of what happens next. The most he participates in is a series of bone-crushing hugs from Cosette and his parents; an achingly sweet kiss from Grantaire; and half a blink before his family are suddenly not there anymore.

For all it seems sudden, he knows that they had to leave through the door – it tries to swing shut behind them. It does wind up stuck in the frame without shutting fully, layers of chipping paint having swollen and deflated enough over the years that it will probably never close easily again.

"Enjolras," Montparnasse says. His eyes flick to the door. "Or is it just 'Enjy' now?"

He shrugs and refuses to acknowledge the jab. "It's still Enjolras…Monty."

He enjoys the upward tick of his roommate's mouth, and the way the inappropriate use of his nickname makes Montparnasse lose a small bit of his edge.

Everyone knows Montparnasse.

Correction: everyone who went to Enjolras's high school knows Montparnasse, has been offered drugs by Montparnasse, or has heard one story or another about Montparnasse. Enjolras himself has never put much stock in rumors. Plenty of people had been saddled with unfortunate imaginings they were unable to shake, and he knows of at least three that followed him around for those four years; Grantaire still has trouble shaking off the reputation he gained that rough first year. Montparnasse is unquestionably the kind of person that unfavorable rumors stick to, however, the two of them have never really had the chance to interact much, so for all Enjolras knows they could be completely unbiased.

Even if they never particularly looked like they were.

Montparnasse resumes unpacking, carefully removing articles of clothing and hanging them up in the closet he's chosen as his own. "Parnasse is fine," he says. "I hope you don't mind that picked beds without you, but I've been here for about three hours now."

The truth of the matter is Enjolras doesn't see himself spending much time in the room in the first place. He's already planned to spend as much of his time as possible at the library. "It doesn't matter." He never really cared which bed he gets, and he believes Montparnasse when he says that it's been hours. Any less time and he might have been a bit just the slightest bit peeved because his roommate clearly did get the better bed.

Enjolras lets them lapse into silence as they fall back into work putting away their clothes. Montparnasse has another suitcase with him in addition to the one he was unpacking when Enjolras first arrived. The clothes are nice – he has at least three times what Enj does.

Enjolras tunes back into his task of putting books on the shelf, realizing he is running out of room faster than anticipated. "Hey," he calls over one shoulder, "you can take up some of my closet space if I can have some of your bookshelf."

Parnasse laughs. "Deal."

-:-

"It was weed, Grantaire!"

 _"Calm down, Enj. I'm sure it was."_

"He can't keep it here."

 _"Smoking doesn't usually bother you."_

"I believe the laws and history surrounding the practice to be contradictory and asinine, however I am not willing to risk my chance at changing them because my roommate was discovered getting high in our dorm."

 _"So, you're not going to say anything then?"_

"I don't know what I'm going to do."

 _"Listen, the last I heard anything about Parnasse it was second-hand from Gavroche who got it first-hand from Eponine, but it was that he was trying to shake it all off before college and before it led to something bigger than weed. Christ knows he never wanted it resort to drugs in the first place."_

"I am well aware of the circumstances that could lead to someone dealing, R. None of that changes the fact that I should inform someone."

 _"And first-hand awareness is ten times worse. Look I know you know better than most what the system is like considering your parents and all, but the system is shit and I doubt that someone like Parnasse will get any kind of break."_

"Grantaire – "

 _"Enjolras."_

"I don't actually want to argue with you right now, y'know?"

 _"Then stop arguing with me."_

-:-

He does eventually confront Montparnasse about it. He does his best not to become "preachy" or "righteous" especially since Grantaire is right when he considers that he doesn't know first-hand any event that might have led his roommate here.

Parnasse is more offended by the implication that he's using some of the product he's socked away rather than Enjolras's admittedly ham-handed attempts to get him to flush "good money" down the toilet.

Enjolras has no real response for that.

Parnasse agrees to sell it soon and, more importantly, assures Enjolras that this is the last remnants of his dealing days.

"Scouts honor," he smirks, right hand in the air.

-:-

Combeferre meets his new prospective roommate unenthusiastically two weeks before winter break.

If he can't remember the last time he went an hour without a cup of coffee this guy looks like he can't remember the last time he slept for an hour. There are deep shadows under his eyes and his hair hangs limp and greasy around his shoulders a bit of it caught underneath the strap of his single duffle bag. He's two heads shorter than Combeferre and drowning in Frankenstein's sweater. He looks like hell.

"Are you Enjolras?" he asks.

His response is to point at Combeferre's coffee cup. "How much espresso is in that?"

"A lot?"

Presumably Enjolras snatches the coffee. Combeferre doesn't stop him. Coffee is expensive and therefore sacred, but he recognizes a man in need.

The blonde downs most of the coffee in desperate swallows, pausing just long enough to draw a shaky breath.

"Sorry," Possibly Enjolras offers him a small smile. "I promise to return the favor, but you have no idea how much I needed that."

Combeferre raises his hands, open palmed. "I know the look man," he says, "neck deep in midterms with just a hint of 'no end in sight' mania. Though, I have to admit, you seem a little bit beyond that."

Probably Enjolras knocks back the rest of the coffee. "Yeah, well, when your roommate gets caught dealing by the art museum, because you told him not to do it near the room, cause you don't want to get caught up in the entire thin- situa- debacle?; _even though_ until they finish inspecting the entirety of your room you're still under vague suspicion room because there could still be drugs there. So, now your roommate, who isn't even a particularly malicious individual to begin with, is facing jail time for less than a pound of marijuana, and I can't help but feel slightly guilty."

"Sounds like a rough couple of days." Combeferre suddenly wishes he had four more coffees to give this poor stressed out…is it appropriate to call someone you've just met a smol bean?

"That is an incredible understatement," Hopefully Enjolras says. "I am Enjolras, by the way." He holds out his hand.

Combeferre takes it firmly and smiles. "Combeferre, nice to meet you."

"I am… _sincerely_ sorry about all of that just now." Enjolras runs his free hand through his hair and grips a fistful close to his scalp. "I didn't actually mean to say most of it, but I really – I mean – _ugh._ I haven't slept in a while."

"It's fine, really." Combeferre lets go of Enjolras's grip and instead gestures over his shoulder. "Look, I've got a Keurig back at my room. How about we head on back so I can show you around? You get more coffee and can check out the place at the same time. Win-win."

Enjolras nods, hitching his duffle further up on his shoulder. The coffee starts to look like it's kicking in, at the very least its heat put some extra color in him, so – confident that Enjolras is no longer about to keel over at the drop of a hat – he about-faces and leads the way back to his (their) dorm.


End file.
